Category: Precious memories

In Lieu of Hugs

It was hard to say goodbye to loved ones without tight embraces enveloping whispered assurances

Memories cannot make up for absent hugs.

It’s Tuesday evening, time to write, but the page stares at me. We are in Chicago, arriving a few days ago to spend the weekend with family celebrating our granddaughter LLJ’s first birthday. Her extended maternal family flew in from Canada. Our son and his wife, sharing an Airbnb with family, offered us their condo. The family lines blur as we greet each other and get reacquainted. The girls who were children at the last visit are now graceful teens. This is the first time meeting the three-year-old girl, having watched her grow on Facebook. She invites us to stay in the Airbnb. Another baby, a boy in this field of estrogen. just weeks younger than LLJ offers another perspective on infancy.

With so many people around there was little chance for 1:1 time with LLJ. We held back, allowing those from greater distances and fewer chances for interaction to take their share. We would celebrate on her actual birth date after the “Canadians” returned home.  

Then Covid bit one more time, a sore throat suggesting SD take a home test and revealing the presence of the virus. The plans for a light supper and cake at C-boy and P-DiL’s home were scrapped in favor of sandwiches at the park on this beautiful early spring day. However, caution against the virus was high preempting hugs and demanding a modicum of social distancing.

We leave tomorrow. My eyes drank in the beauty of my family. Usually my son’s hugs recall his devotion to his mother as an eight-year-old. My daughter-in-law’s beautiful hair warms my face. Without the embraces, I imagined the baby’s fresh smell of soft skin and the strong arms of my little boy, sensed the warm silkiness of P-diL’s hair.

It was hard to say goodbye to loved ones without tight embraces enveloping whispered assurances. There are plans for us to return in four weeks for another family celebration. But Life is not guaranteed. For now, memories must serve.

The Playset is Gone

The window frames a view of the tree, the neighbor’s red clay roof, and oleanders, a

How dare you go so soon?

Acknowledging the tension involved in sharing a home, Mike installed a shed for my use. Some people call it a she-shed, I call it my writing shed, and my friend Nancy calls it Norway, because I threaten to move to Norway, ranked one of the happiest nations in the world.

There is plenty of room in the yard to accommodate this shed, as well as the wooden play set. Echoes of children laughing, playing, and watching movies waft nearby. But the wood of the structure was drying as it sits rarely used.

ED protested when we proposed removing it, asserting that Mowgli and his friends still use it. Conversation with Mowgli, however, affirmed his lack of interest. The monkey bars were the first to go. In order to swing from them, Mowgli would have to curl his legs up from the ground. On the off chance that he and his friends climbed onto the platform, convoluting their bodies to crawl through the entryway, they would find themselves uncomfortably confined.

I understand ED’s reluctance. She sees the boys’ childhood fading more quickly than she would like. I hold onto the special memories of the many sets that we have owned in various homes, from a simple swing on the porch to elaborate play sets. We observed our children’s physical development, cheering them on as they strengthened their muscles and gained coordination. Too soon their bodies left the backyard to venture into the world via bicycles, cars, and jets.

When Mike first installed my shed, I could view the playset set comfortably under a shade tree through a window. Within a few days, the set was gone. The window frames a view of the tree, the neighbor’s red clay roof, and oleanders, a scene of serenity. But the absence of the playset uncovers a hole in my heart.

Rewarded

Even Blue Boy wrapped his arms around me rather than simply leaning his head in my embrace. Mowgli required some encouragement, but did not writhe out of my arms until I was ready to release him.

This is what hugs from the boys feel like.

A wise man named Larry, leaving the Appalachian Trail a day earlier than planned, commented that he had greatly underestimated the difficulty and overestimated his ability.

Mike cut his hike of the Arizona Trail by approximately half. Nevertheless, he completed an impressive 67 miles in 6 days and camping out in the wild 4 nights. Portions of the terrain surprised him with its ruggedness, and of course, he had to adapt to the altitude.

I served as roadie, enjoying my days sipping wine with friends, writing, walking, and sleeping in clean comfortable beds at night.

We returned home after 10 days and were rewarded. Now that the boys are solidly teenagers, there can be a significant amount of sulking in the house. Returning from their flu shots, they greeted us cheerfully (wow!), with full frontal hugs (double wow!!). Even Blue Boy wrapped his arms around me rather than simply leaning his head in my embrace. Mowgli required some encouragement, but did not writhe out of my arms until I was ready to release him.

“Did you miss me?” I asked.

“Were you gone?” answered Simon. Followed closely by “yes.”

And there was laughter. At least through dinner, at which point an argument ensued and everyone retreated to their corners.

Ah, home.

Who was that?

I absorb the sight, trying to burn it into my memory. The former memory will always be precious. But I know that this sight will also transform. I don’t want to forget any of it.

A little boy in my mind, a young man in reality.

 

The door from the garage opens…

… and two young men fall into the house, dropping backpacks and discarding shoes. Not the noise, rather the sight startles me. Momentarily I think, “Who are these people?”

Our house is situated to offer a shortcut to the neighborhood from the local elementary school. During that past few years, it was not unusual for students to walk around or even through the house on their way home. A few knew us well enough to stop to use the bathroom and grab a snack or drink.

The boys are no longer in elementary school, though, so the traffic has vanished. Electing to attend an out of district high school, the boys drive themselves to school.

I knew the boys were due home.

But my mind jolts each time they walk past me.

The adorable short round Blue Boy is now a young man, albeit with bluish hair, almost as tall as his grandfather. Now in the third year of high school, he carries himself with the confidence of one well-adjusted. And yes, still adorable.

The sight of impish Mowgli, so named because of his tousled long blond mane, is even more startling. His sudden heightening combined with a complimentary haircut aged him beyond the one-year span of change. He may be taller than his grandfather now. We can’t keep up with his measurements. He moves as if trying to figure out how to manage his long limbs. He appears to appreciate having an older brother scouting the path to maturity. 

These evolving young men…

… occupy the space in which I expect to see Blue Boy and Mowgli of four years ago. I absorb the sight, trying to burn it into my memory. The former memory will always be precious. But I know that this sight will also transform. I don’t want to forget any of it.

I Miss Jigga

So an ode to Jigga who loved us and expressed her love, greeting us at the door with leaps of joy and exuberant narration of all that had transpired during our separation. Like a loving parent, she forgave us our irritability and neglect.

The perfect dog

Dog-watching in Chicago

Mike and I are people watching on Clark Street, Chicago, enjoying sangria outside Andies. I am also dog watching.

Despite the humidity, we have been able to walk the beautiful Northside neighborhoods of Andersonville and Edgewater. Dogs abound.

The restaurants and coffee shops with outdoor patios allow pets to join their owners as they enjoy a meal or coffee. Remarkably, the dogs are well-behaved.

My dog teacher

Our beloved Jigga has been gone just over two years, and I miss her more as time goes on. Jigga taught me about dogs, that each one possesses unique personality, just like each child. Luna, our current canine, has highlighted that fact. 

So an ode to Jigga who loved us and expressed her love, greeting us at the door with leaps of joy and exuberant narration of all that had transpired during our separation. Like a loving parent, she forgave us our irritability and neglect.

She protected us, restless until everyone was in the house.

She was gentle in play, but I would have trusted her against an aggressor.

Thank you, Jigga

Mowgli’s relationship with Jigga was a quiver in his arsenal managing ADD. We realized a short time after Jigga’s death that another dog was needed. If not for that, we would have been happy to remain dog-free, knowing that we had been blessed with the perfect pet.

I love Luna. And as if a natural dog lover, I observe each dog, inquire about their history. I could care for any of these dogs.

But as I let them sniff and lick, it is Jigga that I am loving.

What time is dinner?

When I am feeling frustrated with the lack of routine, I envision our life in five years, when the boys are out of the house.

The girls were in high school…

 C-boy a toddler when my mother came to visit for a few days. Her offer to help with dinner (supper in the Midwest) was accepted but postponed until later in the evening, when the girls would be home.

The next afternoon I began preparations for the meal.

Her voice tinged with frustration, my mother who had served supper at 5:30 every evening inquired, “What time do you normally eat supper?”

“When the most people are in the house,” was my reply.

When my nephews were in high school…

active in sports and academic life, their father, my brother, asked me if we had been able to eat together as a family when the girls were at that stage.

“We ate when the most people were at home,” was my reply.

Our house now has two teenagers…

and yes, dinner time is fluid. The boys have limited extracurricular activities and few friends in the immediate neighborhood. COVID thwarted many social opportunities for all of us. Most of us are home most of the time.

However, the boys are teenagers, descending the stairs anywhere from 8:00 am to 2:00 pm for their first meal. I often catch Blue Boy preparing his lunch at 4:00.

Thus ED has reached out to the boys to determine when they want to eat. Meaning we may eat at 4:30 or 7:30 or any time between. Meals are prepared and served between Zoom meetings. Usually, we sit together at the table, which may include three to five people.  

Raising children later in life…

keeps you young, people say. I attest that it can also age you. The physical demands are more intense, calling attention to one’s decreased stamina and strength.

The ever-changing needs and fads of children tax the mind. It is impossible to get into a rut. Given the risks involved with decreased cognitive flexibility, living in a household with varied dinner times may be mentally healthy.

When I am feeling frustrated with the lack of routine, I envision our life in five years, when the boys are out of the house.

The truth is that for now, I prefer this chaotic ride.

The child on his father’s shoulders

I would prefer to hoist them up to my shoulders, lift them to the swing, or carry them across the yard. The years plagued by an ever-present child clinging to my hip are gone.

Front row seat

The vignette

Who are they? Where are they going?

When I sighted the child, around three years of age, riding his (her?) father’s shoulders as he walked past my garden level window in Chicago. I had no curiosity about who they were or where they were going. I was aware of a prayer: be happy. Be happy at this moment.  

The vignette stayed with me through my initial return home and a second extended stay in the Windy City. I am back in the desert of the Southwest once again. Nine months has not paled the image.

When in Chicago, Mike and I make our home in the basement of SD’s two level condo. I claim my space under the window, which sneaks scenes of the lives of the neighborhood residents. Occasionally one of the passer-bys spots me, and returns my wave as I work at my computer, keyboard, or sewing machine. It is easy to feel at home in this neighborhood of generous Midwesterners, lush foliage, and fascinating shops.  

Heart tug

The memory of that child on his/her father’s shoulders plucks the string of love in my heart. Love for my children, grandchildren, myself as a child, children everywhere. What is more grand than riding on your father’s shoulders? Is there any other act more trusting, more innocent?

When we return from Chicago to the house we share with our older daughter and her two sons, we are met by young men whose shoulders are several inches above mine, and close to surpassing their grandfather’s. I hug my grandsons’ chests, an obligation they are expected to endure.

I would prefer to hoist them up to my shoulders, lift them to the swing, or carry them across the yard. The years plagued by an ever-present child clinging to my hip are gone.

Feeling blessed

The cold clouds of the weekend have moved over the lake to leave warm breezes of spring. It is a good day to take a walk and admire the tulips.

Baby smell

Random thoughts today. We are in Chicago and will hold our newest grandchild, LLJ, the first girl, in an hour or so. I can smell her already!

To celebrate, I put together a lasagne, the recipe from the boys’ paternal grandmother who remains in their lives. We are thankful that connection remains intact although, sadly, not close because of the great distance between our homes.

Meanwhile, back home

We also celebrate Blue Boy’s first athletic letter for golf. True to his personality, he didn’t understand what it was for nor the honor it marked. Simultaneously, he received the letter welcoming him to National Honor Society. Good job, Blue Boy!

Mowgli returned to in-person schooling long enough to raise his grades before being sent home after exposure to COVID. This is getting old. He looks forward to 8th grade graduation and commencement of high school. Hopefully, in person!

Blessed

Circles of Life: C-boy, the happy father of LLJ, works in Roselle, near to the home we left to move to Arizona. Where will LLJ grow up? That will be determined when C-boy completes his master’s degree.

P-Dil is still perfect, remaining ever upbeat when C-boy becomes discouraged.

ED is enjoying the freedom earned by raising two good kids. She hikes, usually with a friend, at least twice a week. I took up jogging at her age. The 40s were the best!

SD and MBP live actively in Chicago, walking everywhere, enjoying close friendships, enjoying city life. Their still new relationship holds promise for deep love.

The cold clouds of the weekend have moved over the lake to leave warm breezes of spring. It is a good day to take a walk and admire the tulips.

Harbingers of Spring

No longer a baby

I am afraid to blink: LLJ born this week will too soon be 14, progressing to high school. Before then, Blue Boy and Mowgli could be fathers. My children will become members of the “grand” generation: grandparent, great aunt, great uncle. My stomach turns.

Ready for 8th grade graduation photos

My mind cannot grasp

Mowgli and Blue Boy are not babies.

Math teacher SD avows that rolling one or six dice does not change the odds of getting a three. She should know. But I will choose to roll all six. Just as my mind cannot grasp probability, it rejects children growing up.

Like an optical illusion, Mowgli is becoming a young man. While we were in Chicago celebrating the birth of our third grandchild, Mowgli was learning to knot a tie for his eighth-grade graduation photo via You Tube. Noticing that his one dress tie fell only to the top of his ribs, ED ran out to get a new one. She is not prepared for his growth, either.

You will always be my baby

When C-boy was in school, I accompanied him to the funeral of his friend who had died in an accident. During the visitation, we viewed articles the parents had presented: a school jacket, sports memorabilia, photos of him as a small boy. I cautioned C-boy: that is how they will remember him.

The pictures of Mowgli portray an adolescent boy. I see a little towhead cutie, wickedly funny and calculating, ready for hugs. Who is this young man sharing Mowgli’s features? How dare he grow up without me?

I am afraid to blink: LLJ born this week will too soon be 14, progressing to high school. Before then, Blue Boy and Mowgli could be fathers. My children will become members of the “grand” generation: grandparent, great aunt, great uncle. My stomach turns.

But this is for Mowgli

Oh Mowgli, knowing your battles, we are proud of you! Living your battles, you are not aware of what you overcome. Be proud of yourself. But please don’t grow up so quickly!!

Hello, are you there?

Children learn early about object permanence, establishing trust in the laws of nature. At the other end of life, we face impermanence, mortality. I don’t want Mowgli to be burdened that his poop emoticon may be the last connection between us

On the road

Mike and I have been on the road for over two weeks, meandering across the Midwest, discarding empty photo albums and photos, delivering antiques, and visiting friends and family. Now holed up in SD’s garden level guest room, we are in Chicago awaiting the birth of C-boy and P-Dil’s first child.

Easter

My life as a church musician meant that Easter was a BIG deal, marked for me by exhaustion. This year we spent Easter apart from ED and the boys, the first time in my life that I didn’t dye eggs. We were on the road moving from Ohio to Chicago following a lovely brunch hosted by Mike’s aunt Shirley.

I sent digital Starbucks gift cards to each of the kids to mark the special day. Everyone replied lovingly. Blue Boy even added “I love you.”

Except Mowgli

Mowgli is a loving, generous kid, but responds rarely to messages. Does he realize we aren’t home? It was days before I received notice that he had opened the email.

My mother put the burden of communication on the kids. When she complained that we never called, we installed an answering machine: yes we called; you weren’t home. Pick up the phone and call us back.

My children are busy with family, work, and school. The grandkids are kids. I accept the responsibility of staying connected, texting regularly. Most often they reply.

Joking?

Except Mowgli. It has occurred to me that he does this intentionally, a type of joke. Like when my nephew would answer my mother’s phone calls with an accent, feigning the wrong number. It was a “thing” between them.

I’m laughing

Children learn early about object permanence, establishing trust in the laws of nature. At the other end of life, we face impermanence, mortality. I don’t want Mowgli to be burdened that his poop emoticon may be the last connection between us. I want him to know that I laughed when I saw it.